


The Kirkwall We (Forgot to) Remember

by AFigurativeVenture, andersofficial



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fluff, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Hawke Reacts Inappropriately to Grievous Injuries, Humor, Kirkwall Gang Does Shennanigans, Will tag as the fic progresses - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-20 16:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20678399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AFigurativeVenture/pseuds/AFigurativeVenture, https://archiveofourown.org/users/andersofficial/pseuds/andersofficial
Summary: Varric may have lied a little in his accounts to Cassandra -- gentle spins on credible truths, subtle but significant omissions. One of the things he didn't let on was just how fondly he remembered those years.A collaborative series of vignettes set in 9:30-9:37 Kirkwall, each based loosely on a prompt from the previous author. Canon is not necessarily consistent from chapter to chapter. No particular chronology.





	1. F!Hawke & Isabela

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! TheoreticalOnly speaking. I'm very excited for this little series! AFigurativeVenture and I hope to bring a little more levity and positivity into the fandom. Since I'm kicking this off, the first prompt given by my lovely partner is "Parlay. Hanged man. Five minutes."
> 
> Hit us up on tumblr!
> 
> AFigurativeVenture (same handle) and TheoreticalOnly ➞ anders-official

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Isabela calls in a favor.

_Parley. Hanged Man. Five minutes. Be there._

Hawke still had the crumpled paper note jammed into the crux of her palm when she kicked in the door of the Hanged Man. The tavern music ground to a halt; several dozen heads swiveled towards her in tandem, eyes narrowed over the wet brims of full flagons. Someone was disturbing the fragile peace of their hedonism.

For their part, Varric, Sebastian, Isabela, and Donnic raised hands of cards to ever so slightly disguise their faces. Anders, who was holding up a hand for her blighted mabari (a discussion for another time), slid low in his seat until only his forehead was visible above the table.

"Hey, Hawke," Isabela stage-whispered, "what, uh, what are you doing?"

The thoroughly flummoxed Champion cleared her throat and gently shut the door behind her, wincing when one of its hinges snapped off. "I'll, um, pay for that." She was overcome by a sudden longing to disappear into the safety of her armor, which did not abate as she approached the gambling table. Maker be blessed, at least the music started up again, and the patrons resumed their activities. "I got your note about a parley. Is Castillon here? Are you in danger?"

Isabela groaned and set down her cards. "A _parlay,_ Hawke. I wrote you about a parlay."

"She raised the stakes to double or nothing," Sebastian explained, "and one of us is walking out of here without our clothes on. If the game proceeds on this trajectory, it will not be me."

"So, you're not--" Hawke took a deep breath. "Andraste's gilded tits, Isabela. I was ready to take heads off of shoulders. Actually, I still am. I really thought it was an emergency."

"It _is _an emergency, if you take _my _priorities into account," Isabela replied primly. "And besides, you know I'm a dreadful speller. You should have known when you got the note that I meant parlay. If I ever need to inform you of a parley, I will do so via much more direct measures."

Varric dealt the Champion in. "Blondie is the only one who gets a teammate, but we agreed that you could play independently. And sabotage where you see fit."

Hawke took a seat next to her (simultaneously least and most) favorite pirate captain and looked her cards over. "I hope you know I'm charging you for this in alcohol. And that my rates are steep. How did you even get into this mess?"

"It was her own hubris, as usual." Sebastian swirled a few chips of ice around a short glass of gold-brown liquor. "She did not believe me when I warned her that my youth of vice and lechery had thus prepared me for victory in wicked grace."

Anders raised a brow. "Dear Isabela then bet, as I recall, a 'prince's ass' that she could best him."

"Most unwise," said Sebastian. "I happen to possess one, and I am quite dedicated to preserving its dignity in the eyes of the Maker."

Isabela made a lewd gesture, and Hawke laughed, and the night blurred into a raucous haze of drinks and shouting, which culminated in Sebastian having to explain some unsavory nighttime activities to the Grand Cleric in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My prompt for the next vignette is:
> 
> "I got stabbed. Again."


	2. F!Hawke and Anders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke got stabbed. (Don't worry, it's not serious.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Venture here, and I'm very excited to be working on this with my partner in crime TheoreticalOnly :)  
The prompt was 'I got stabbed. Again.' So let's get to it.

The irony of Anders' clinic was that it wasn’t actually that hard to find, not if you knew the place or the locals. Still, the uneven, unpaved paths of Darktown did Hawke no favors as she limped her way there.

The doors were open and the lamp was lit. Anders was alone, quietly sweeping the floor.

“Hey there, my blond champion.”

Anders looked up, his eyes brightening. “Hawke! What do you…” His gaze dropped down to the bloody mess of her tunic. “Andraste's blood, what!”

“I got stabbed. Again,” she added, smiling wryly. “Mark the calendars!”

“Yes, I can see that, but what did you _do?_”

“Oh, so I sass off to one Coterie member having a bad day, and suddenly every armed lunatic coming at me in the alleys is _my_ fault. I see how it is.”

“That isn’t what – oh, Maker's breath.” Anders laughed despite himself. “Just come here.”

He shook his head and gestured to the table he used for his patients. Hawke sauntered over (and mind you, sauntering is hard when you’re bleeding from a stab wound) and hopped up onto the side of the table. Anders stepped close to her and began to work his magic.

“Are you going to leave a scar this time?” Hawke asked. “You said scars are sexy, right?”

“You’re impossible, you know that? Because there definitely will be a scar if you can’t be quiet and sit still.”

Hawke gave an amused huff, but did as he asked. When he was finished, Anders stepped back and took a steadying breath. Hawke brushed her hands over her ruined tunic. She didn’t have any thread at the estate, did she? Maybe Merrill would have some. Hawke glanced back to find Anders watching her.

“What?”

“Huh?”

“You were staring. Not thinking any naughty thoughts, I hope? Because I will be very put out if you were and didn’t share it with me.”

“Well, now that you asked,” Anders said with a gentle laugh. “Actually, I was just thinking you reminded me of Mahariel.”

“The Hero of Ferelden? How so? Last I checked, I had neither facial tattoos nor pointed ears.”

“Well, not physically. you reminded me of this one time in Amaranthine when she punched a Templar in the face.”

“I can see why you liked her, but I’m still not seeing the similarity. I mean, I know I got pretty drunk at the Hanged Man last night, but not 'punching Templars in the street' drunk.”

“It wasn't so much who she punched as _how._ Did I say the face? Because I meant in the helmet. Knocked him out cold. Wasn’t even wearing gloves! Broke her hand and didn’t so much as flinch.”

“You’re making that up.”

“Varric said the same thing! I’m quite serious. Really, that was one of the more believable stories of her I’ve got.”

Anders fell quiet, and the two of them sat there in the companionable silence. Hawke broke it. “You left the Wardens after she did, right?”

“Yes. She left Nathaniel in charge before she disappeared. Nate tried, but a Chantry mother intercepted the people the higher-ups at Weisshaupt sent when they heard, and, as you can imagine, they had different views on the abominable apostate than our former Warden-Commander. And I found out about Karl around the time they started posting Templars in the Vigil.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Well, it wasn’t all bad.” Anders looked back to her, a sly smile playing behind his eyes. “If I hadn’t left Ferelden, I wouldn’t have met you.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I’d be careful saying things like that, if I were you. Keep it up, and you might never be rid of me.”

They both laughed. Hawke took Anders' hand and gave it a squeeze.

The two of them sat together, looking out the clinic’s windows as the sun set on another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throwing it back with "Stargazing on a clear night"!


	3. F!Hawke and Merrill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a clear night in the Free Marches, Hawke gets smitten for Merrill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt that my lovely partner gave me for this chapter was "stargazing on a clear night." Hope I can do it some justice!
> 
> Catch me on hellsite dot com at anders-official.tumblr.com!

Night has fallen on the party, and they're too far into the Wounded Coast to justify the trek back to Kirkwall. The decision to set up camp for the night is swift and unanimous. Hawke, Aveline, and Fenris are finishing with their tents while Merrill struggles with hers, holding up poles and stakes in utter confusion.

"Someone please help the blood mage," Fenris implores flatly, "I'm starting to pity her."

Aveline shoulders her axe. "I think I'll go cut some firewood."

The task falls to Hawke. She takes the poles from Merrill's hands and demonstrates the proper procedure for assembly, and before long, the tent is pitched.

"Thank you," Merrill sighs. Her eternally open expression is one of profound gratitude. "I'm sorry I'm not more useful out in the Marches. You'd think a Dalish elf would be better suited to the outdoors, but Keeper Marethari believed my time was better spent learning other skills.”

Hawke offers a good-natured smile. "Don't fret, Merrill. I don’t keep you around for your outdoorsmanship.“

“Oh? What do you keep me around for?”

Before Hawke can muster a cogent reply, Fenris makes a noncommittal but pointed grunt in the background.

Once a fire is struck, the adventurers share a quiet meal. Hawke hasn't known most of them long; even Aveline, who came with her to Kirkwall in the damp hold of that blighted refugee ship, is a relative unknown, and Hawke often struggles to relate to her ever since she took a job with the Guard. They are a ways off from anything resembling 'companionable' silence. Right now, it just feels like waiting. Every pop of the fire or stir of the breeze is a welcome distraction from the awkwardness of the affair.

It's Fenris who finally relieves the party. "You know," he begins, “the stars here are a bit different from Tevinter. I only recognize some of the constellations.”

“They’re a bit different in Ferelden, too,” Aveline offers. “But I’ve had enough late nights manning the outskirts of the city that these have become familiar.”

Merrill tucks her knees up to her chest and rests her chin between them. “I’ve been following these stars since I was a girl. The clan would navigate by their position every time humans made us move.” Fenris makes a noise that Hawke would dare categorize as sympathetic, and Merrill continues. “You know, it’s a little silly, but when I was little, I believed that the stars moved because Fen’Harel was chasing them, and he would catch them if they stopped to rest.”

She goes quiet for what feels like an age, but Hawke and the others wait and listen, sensing what is thus far left unsaid. “As I got older, and the Templars forced us from every place we called home, I realized that it wasn’t the stars Fen’Harel was chasing.”

Hawke puts a tentative hand on her shoulder, and squeezes when Merrill gives an affirming nod. “I’m sorry. What the Dalish suffer at human hands is unforgivable.”

Merrill smiles sweetly and casts her gaze towards the sky. “I really am trying to do what’s best for the clan, even if they don’t see it. We have been running from death and destruction for so many generations that it’s all we remember. The names of our gods and our foremothers are nearly lost, and once we’ve lost them, why continue to run? What will we live for? What are a people without their past?”

Fenris winces palpably at that.

“Our pasts are important,” Hawke agrees, “but that is not all we are. We salvage what we can, and we take pride in our survival. We learn. We grow. We create a vision for a better future. And then we build it, piece by piece. Even if others doubt us. Even if it hurts.”

Merrill looks across the fire to Fenris, and he looks back at her intently, his features softened by the orange light.

"You have pure intentions," he says slowly, his tone measured, "and for the sake of your clan, I pray that your magic does not stain them."

It is as close to a concession as Fenris will give for years to come. With that, he stands. "I am retiring for the night."

Aveline follows suit. "I'll take second watch, like usual. Wake me earlier if there's trouble, Hawke."

Hawke waves, and watches her companions vanish into their respective tents. Merrill hasn't moved, and it's only now that she realizes that her hand is still on her shoulder. "Sorry," she mumbles. "I wasn't--"

"No," Merrill says, "it's nice."

"Oh."  Hawke wraps her arm around Merrill and suppresses an idiotic grin when the elf curls close to her side. "Is that alright?"

"It's lovely. You're lovely."

The fire eats away at the hours, and Hawke rests her cheek on Merrill's hair, dark and coarse and smelling of ash. When Aveline wakes to take second watch, Merrill is sound asleep against her.

"Any news?" Aveline asks by way of greeting.

"A few boats out tonight, but they look to be fishing vessels. All quiet otherwise," Hawke reports.

The guard nods, looking from Hawke to Merrill and back again. "Right, then."

"Right, then." Hawke clears her throat and gives Merrill a nudge. "Hey. Let's get you to bed."

Merrill groans and stirs, her doe eyes bleary as she blinks them open. "Tired."

"I know. Your tent is just a few steps away."

Hawke hauls Merrill up onto her feet and guides her, barely-conscious, onto her bedroll. She contemplates attempting to tuck her into it, but Merrill has already balled herself up on top. Instead, she goes to her own tent, retrieves her bedroll, and drapes it over them both, turning so their backs are pressed together. Sleep eludes her for a time, and Hawke drifts off to visions of Dalish and Fereldens alike, following the stars with the Dread Wolf at their heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Venture, your prompt for the next chapter is: "Fenris wasn't joking about the dancing in his mansion."


End file.
